


The Hand and Its Hold

by sentient_cucumber



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Canon-Typical Violence, Child Abandonment, Child Neglect, Eventual Romance, Explicit Language, F/M, Flashbacks, Freeform, I'm Bad At Tagging, Not Canon Compliant, Past Abuse, Possibly Unrequited Love, Recreational Drug Use, Relapse, Slow Burn, Verbal Abuse, but it's gon be good, i'm not super sure where i'm going with this whole thing, most of the characters used are freeform, using chunks of in-game dialogue bothers me
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-01
Updated: 2017-06-09
Packaged: 2018-08-28 12:55:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8446618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sentient_cucumber/pseuds/sentient_cucumber
Summary: "Happiness is beneficial for the body, but it is grief that develops the powers of the mind." - Marcel Proust----------The Commonwealth: in which everyone is running from something and everyone has their own cross to bear. Valerie is no exception. Run, rabbit. Run.----------Tags will be updated as the story progresses. Chapters Updated: 2/7





	1. A Tail

The embers of a roaring fire crackled and sputtered; smoke rolling off the flames was blackened by a burning tire. A woman, a dog, and a Mr Handy were sat nearby, quietly murmuring amongst themselves. The woman hummed an old world tune as she ran a filthy cloth over her rifle, gradually clicking loose pieces of the weapon back into place. The Mr Handy to her left was powered down, processors still whirring gently. The dog gnawed on a radstag’s bone. Occasionally, he'd pause to listen to distant noises of the Commonwealth; the gunfire, the flutter of bloatflies, and the shuffle of brahmin in the underbrush. Setting the rag to the side, the woman lovingly pet her dog. Reassured, he returned to his bone, worrying it until he was tired.

She placed her rifle on the chunk of asphalt next to her knapsack, resting her hand on its barrel as she laid back on the bedroll beneath her. She stared into the dark sky, contemplating how little it had changed since she had last seen it. Since she'd last truly observed it. Her dog hobbled to her side, leaving the remains of the bone behind. He curled himself next to her, snout pointing towards the treeline. The stars glimmered, and she began to feel tears spill over onto her cheeks. As the streams poured down to her neck, she started to laugh. Softly, at first, but then crescendoed into a roar. 

Little did she know, a man armed with sunglasses heard the echo of her pained laughter. 

And he understood. 

 

* * *

 

 

“Miss Valerie, if I may,” the robot spoke, “you've changed greatly since you came out of the vault.” 

Valerie's mouth twisted. The group was walking along a cracked highway, attempting to reach Diamond City before sundown. They'd been traveling for most of the day. The sun pounded on the asphalt and burned the back of her neck. 

“Codsworth…” Valerie wavered. “You have to understand that I wasn't really myself when I was with Nate.” 

“I thought marriage was meant to be built on honesty, mum. Why not act as yourself?” 

“He wanted me to act a particular way, Codsy. He wasn't looking for honesty.” Valerie smiled, trying in vain to brush the awkward moment away. Codsworth remained silent, no doubt confused by what his owner had said. 

Valerie was right, however. Her husband never approved of women having opinions or  proper intellect. He would've never approved of her love of literature, or her seditious views; both of which had been ingrained into her by her much loved brother. As an army man, he'd also had no tolerance for divergence or rebellion. He was a physical manifestation of stagnation. She wouldn't have married him, or even set eyes on him if it hadn't been for her mother. 

 

_ “Valerie, you can't-” Her mother gasped for air in between sobs. “You can't end up like your brother.”  _

 

_ Valerie was crying, too.  _

 

_ “You've got to promise me.” She wheezed and wiped tears from her daughter’s face. “Find someone nice. I want you to live a beautiful life.”  _

 

Her mother’s idea of a “beautiful life”  was something that Valerie had never wanted: a nuclear family in a subdivision, held captive by a white picket fence. She loathed the pastel houses, the overtly cheery housewives, and the perfectly manicured lawns. The sheer neatness of it all made her uneasy. Valerie hadn't wanted to be married, and she'd never wanted children. Yet, both occurred within a year of each other. 

The day after their wedding day, Nathaniel was honorably discharged from the army. However, he continued to work at the local base, as he simply couldn’t leave the frantic, stiff lifestyle behind. Each day, her husband would return from his work. Nate’s gruff features did nothing to soften his malevolent, bitter nature. Valerie imagined that he was handsome, at a point, but he was no longer. Excess sun exposure had left his skin pocked and rough. The perpetual scowl engraved wrinkles into his forehead. His eyes were cruel. Valerie loathed to look in his eyes; they were far too empty. The extended military service had long since warped his mind, molding him into the perfect American citizen. He hated Communists, free thinking, and anything that didn't bleed red, white, and blue. 

As a steadfast, incorrigible man, Nate was nearly 20 years Valerie’s senior, but that had no effect on her mother. Her mother saw a strapping soldier, home fresh from the war, exhausted from fighting the Reds, and ready to settle with a family. She saw a husband for her daughter, a father for her grandchildren. Valerie only saw a foul man who would later become her abuser. 

After she became pregnant with Shawn, she hated Nate more than she ever had. The baby wasn't conceived in love, and was unwanted. As a result, Valerie didn't look for him. She was aware that he'd been stolen from his father’s arms, and she was aware that it was cruel for her not to care. Even so, she'd never loved the boy, and could not force herself to do so. 

The party reached Diamond City’s gate just as dusk enveloped the horizon of Boston. There was a pair of people bickering just inside, and Valerie attempted to scuttle past them, desperately wanting to avoid any further exertion on her part. 

“Hey, you!” The louder of the two people bellowed. Turning around, Valerie noted that it was a woman, dressed in typical reporter garb. “How do you feel about someone trying to suppress the news?” 

Groaning internally as she pinched the bridge of her nose, Valerie stood on either side of the arguing pair. She ran a hand across her face, knowing that she’d been roped into an argument. 

“I believe in freedom of the press. If a society doesn't have freedom to express their views of their government or to report the facts, then they don't have anything.” The two were silenced, taken aback. The reporter jabbed her hand out towards Valerie as the man began to stumble over excuses. 

“Piper Wright, member of the press,” she beamed. Valerie waved the handshake away, causing Piper to shrug and tuck her hand back into her coat pocket. “Mayor McDonough seems to be upset that I'm telling his citizens the truth,” she spoke, making eye contact with the mayor. 

“There is no truth in that slanderous newspaper of yours, Piper!” The mayor was red faced and furious. Valerie popped her neck, and slapped her hand on the mayor’s padded shoulder. 

“Look, pal,” Valerie sneered. “I don't give a damn if she's claiming that you're just a bunch of radroaches in a fancy suit. That's her right, and as a politician, it'd be in your best interest to learn to respect it.” 

“Is that a threat?” The suit feigned malice, but Valerie could easily see through his facade. He was frightened of her. 

“It is if you make it one.” Valerie removed her hand from McDonough’s shoulder and stepped away. She started to walk away as Piper scurried to her side. 

“Huzzah, mum!” Codsworth whirred around his mistress. “It's wonderful to see someone who upholds the old American tradition of independence.” Valerie hoisted her rifle over her shoulder. She stayed quiet. She didn't think that standing up for basic rights was something to be praised. It was just something you did. 

“You know, Blue,” Piper threw her arm around Valerie's shoulders. “I'd love to do a piece on you.” Valerie stopped and turned towards her. A glint over Piper’s shoulder caught her eye. Light reflecting off of a set of sunglasses. 

“I'm not sure there's anything worth talking about. I'm just a traveler.” 

“Oh yeah, you're definitely just a traveler. A basic wastelander with perfect skin and teeth, clad in a vault suit, accompanied by a Mr Handy and an attack dog. Totally normal.” Piper cocked an eyebrow and shot a smirk at Valerie, who only sighed. “Listen, I've gotta head back to check in on my sister-- but if you change your mind, come find me.” Piper walked through the great doors of the stadium, and faded from view. 

“It could be nice to have some recognition for all your good deeds lately, mum.” Codsworth suggested quietly, lifting one of his appendages. Valerie recoiled slightly, sporting a repulsed face. “You could use the opportunity to spread the news of the new settlements and your position as General of the Minutemen.” 

“I don't think people are meant to brag about good deeds for recognition, Codsworth. Not to mention, I'm not trying to make front page news as a new figurehead for the Commonwealth to fear.” 

“I don't think there's any worry of you becoming a tyrant, Miss Valerie. You're much too adamant about democracy to become corrupt.” Dogmeat nudged her relaxed hand in agreement with the bot. Or perhaps he was simply looking for a free pat. 

“You know,” a stranger in the corner spoke up. “General is a pretty nice title. If I were you, I'd flaunt it all over the ‘Wealth.” 

“Luckily for you, you're not me,” Valerie shot back. 

“But- but I understand what you mean,” The man stuttered, partially surprised. “About authority. Never cared for it that much myself.” 

Valerie nodded her head and shrugged at the stranger. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the polarized lenses of his sunglasses. She looked ragged; her once immaculate skin was smudged with dirt and oxidized blood, and her hair was mussed, in spite of the firm bun she attempted to keep it in. The circles surrounding her eyes grew darker every day, signaling the reality of her exhaustion. Pink, fleshy scars peppered her face and a heavy burn mark crept up the side of her neck from beneath her vault suit’s collar. At one time, Valerie kept herself in nothing short of prestigious condition. She wore dresses with color coordinated accessories and petticoats. Her hair was persistently styled and smooth, and there were very few moments where her husband saw her without makeup. This, of course, was merely to appease Nate. 

 

_ “I won't have my wife looking like a goddamn whore,”  _ he'd always say.  _ “Your only job is to look decent, and you can't even do that properly.”  _

 

Valerie clenched her teeth at the memory. He'd always say that to her, usually before making her change her dress or her shade of lipstick. It then struck her that he was dead, and she was finally at peace.  Because of this, she smiled at the stranger.

 

* * *

 

 

Deacon felt a strange sensation as the woman smiled at him. The slight curve of her mouth reached her eyes, but he could see the sadness that lurked behind them. He'd easily recognized the look on his own face as he practiced expressions in the mirror. He watched Valerie as she lowered her head and walked into the city. As quickly as she disappeared, he burst into action. He darted behind the counter, pressing the call button for the elevator. 

“See ya, Danny,” he mumbled in a husky tone. The guard nodded at him. Deacon slipped between the rusted doors and let the elevator carry him upwards into the mayor’s office. While enroute, he discarded his guard helmet, and exchanged it for an umpire mask. Making his way down to the marketplace, he began his search for the woman in the blue vault suit. 

This had begun as a simple intel mission, despite there being nothing truly  _ simple  _ about it. Deacon disappeared from the Railroad for nearly a year, admittedly. He had been lurking in the outskirts of Sanctuary, staking out the vault that his mark crawled out of. Deacon lingered right up until the point she came out, and even then, he still clung to her shadow. 

He'd watched Valerie at her weakest moments, and at many times, he felt as if he was a sadist. He'd seen the quiet tears that went unnoticed. The locks of blonde hair that she chopped off after she came out of the vault. The yellowed photograph that she carried in the inseam of her suit. She looked at it often when she was alone, but Deacon had never been close enough to see what the picture was of. From binoculars, he had studied the frayed patches on her leather jacket. He often wondered what they meant, and more importantly, what they meant to her. Continuously, he had studied the lines on her face, the prominent scar above her brow, and the way the wasteland sun had changed her pristine flesh. 

Catching sight of her at Arturo’s shop, Deacon floated around her, giving her a wide berth as he pretended to patrol the area. He paused next to Myrna’s booth, and stood next to the wall. The monotonous rumble of the marketplace made him nervous.

“You got any adhesive or screws, Arturo?” She asked, exchanging her worn hunting rifle for a much nicer assault rifle. 

“Of course! What kind of salesman do you think I am?” The man purred, bringing out a large toolbox from behind his counter. Snatching up two bags of assorted junk, Valerie tossed a leather purse of caps onto the counter. 

“Hey, I need that coin purse back when I’m done. They're hell to make.” She half-grinned at the merchant. Deacon watched with curiosity as the woman carried her newly purchased rifle and supplies to the nearby workbench. She lumbered over the bench, slightly over half an hour, muttering curse words to herself. When she finally stood back to look at her handiwork, the vertebrae in her back popped rhythmically.  Valerie lifted the gun, checking the sights and smirking at the machinery she'd reformed. 

“Mum, isn't that a little…Much?” The Mr Handy wavered. 

“Oh,  _ yeah, _ ” she growled. Taking her leftover caps and satchel, she slung her weapon over her shoulder and moved on. Deacon followed slowly, squinting to get a better look at the piece she'd crafted. The gun had a new scope, and the barrel was vented. The stock had been padded and reinforced. This woman could be better than Tinker Tom. 

The thought struck Deacon in his lying core, sending a chill through his body. 


	2. Colonial

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a history lesson takes place, and Hancock develops an admiration.

**** In the time before October 23, 2077, life in America wasn’t  _ peachy.  _ The war between the United States and the Republic of China had gone on for 11 long, painstaking years, and everyone was tired. Tired of the war. Tired of the death. Tired of the fear. Just tired. Valerie was exhausted of false alarms, sobbing widows, and starving families. There was no food, no money, and no hope. The proud American country had fallen from an inspirational democracy to a regretful totalitarian beast. Valerie’s father had long since been swallowed up by the war; he was gone for three years, when a man in uniform appeared on their family’s doorstep. The man removed his cover, exposing a very solemn expression. Her mother bleary eyed and weak, collapsed. 

After this, Valerie’s brother, Jaime, built a hatred for all things authoritative. He’d concocted the belief that the war, instated by a collection of rich, well-dressed men, had murdered his father in cold blood; in spite of his devoted nature and patriotism, Valerie’s father was still left unspared by the conflict. Jaime regularly poured his anger and hatred into her, inspiring rebellion. He wasn’t inciting her to battle, but rather to take nothing less than she deserved. To recognize disguised tyranny when it stared her in the face. She was 12 when her brother began to bring home books. 

 

_ “Education is the greatest form of rebellion, Val,” Jaime said, voice barely above a whisper. He dumped his backpack out on her bed, several volumes and novels spilling out onto the comforter. He pushed away her binder and her homework, and thrust a book towards her. “Fight back.” Looking at the cover, Valerie realized what the novel was. Though the hardcover was worn and ragged, the raised lettering of the title still stood out.  _

 

_ “Jaime!” Her eyebrows raised in shock. “This has been blacklisted for years! How’d you get this?” The thought of her brother in danger for her sake was frightening. Her brother, almost 5 years her senior, crawled on top of her bed, and sat beside her. He plucked the book from her hands while he kicked his boots off. They hit the ground with a heavy thud. _

 

_ “The boys and I found ‘em while we were out,” he shrugged. “It’s best not to dwell on it. C’mere.” Jaime leaned against the plush pillows, gesturing for Valerie to sit next to him. She tucked himself in the crook of his arm, pressed against his side. She inhaled the scent of his leather jacket, which managed to always carry the odor of cigarettes and gun smoke.  _

 

_ “ _ Chapter One, _ ” Jaime spoke softly as he cracked open the book. “ _ It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen. Winston Smith, his chin _ …”  _

 

 

Valerie waved the memory away. She was peering down her scope, positioned on a bit of scaffolding in the Boston Commons. Catching a super mutant in her sights, she exhaled, and squeezed the trigger. The mutant’s body fell to the concrete as its head burst. Valerie’s lips twitched upwards into a crooked smile. Codsworth wasn’t wrong when he’d said that she’d changed; he just didn’t notice the  _ real  _ change. Though she’d been repeatedly groomed into being a submissive housewife, Valerie now reveled in violence. She was thrilled by the fight, and she fought  _ the good fight.  _

The woman and her dog were outside of snug raider outpost in the middle of the Commons. Codsworth had been sent home to Sanctuary hours ago, and Valerie was somewhat happy for the solitude. A flickering neon hue drew her towards the small town she’d been prancing around for hours. The sign beared a name: Goodneighbor. The noticeable buzzing of the pink sign pulled Valerie in. She heard a cacophony of voices and indistinguishable noise on the other side of the junk wall. Gripping the rusted handle of the door, she forced the door open with her shoulder.

Goodneighbor had the scent of a pub on the bad side of Boston. It smelled of cheap, stale beer and cigarette smoke. There was a hint of vomit and urine, but Valerie tried to overlook it. Standing with broadened shoulders and a defined posture, she began to walk towards an Assaultron selling weapons. As her foot hit the concrete, a heavy palm landed on her bicep.

“First time in Goodneighbor, huh?” A mouth full of gnarled teeth sneered. “Haven’t seen you ‘round before. Looks like you’ll be needing protection, little lady.”

“The only protection I need is against people like you,” Valerie shook her arm violently, trying to shed the man’s hand. She freed herself from him and turned away, continuing her original path. The stranger snatched her arm. Valerie looked at him, eyes aglow with fire. 

“I don’t think you get it, lady.” 

“Now, now. I don’t think  _ you  _ get it, Finn.” A distant voice spoke loudly from the shadows. The stern look on Finn’s face faltered for a moment. Only for a moment. “She’s a guest. You’d do good to lay off.” Hand still firmly around Valerie’s forearm, the man turned to look at the one ordering him. Footsteps swaggered towards them. 

“As if, Hanco-” Finn stopped. The barrel of Valerie’s pistol had been placed against the base of the man’s neck. Slowly, he turned to look at her. Their eyes locked. “Now, listen, k-kid.”

“You must think you’re a tough man,  _ Finn _ ,” Valerie hissed as a smile crept across her face. “Think you can frighten people into giving you caps, yeah? Now, tell me. Do you still think I need protection?”

“No, n-”

A gunshot screamed out across the town. The noise left Valerie’s ears ringing and a splatter of blood across her forehead. The streets had fallen silent, and then regained composure as the moment faded. The man’s body crumpled and dropped to the sidewalk, his blood slowly spreading out around him. Wiping the crimson from her face and slinging it onto the ground, Valerie finally met eyes with the man who’d been speaking to Finn. 

He was a ghoul. This is not what startled Valerie, however. The man was clad in a colonial outfit, complete with a tricorn hat. She holstered her gun and nodded at him. 

“Y’know, I understand you’re new to Goodneighbor and all-- but I can’t have ya murdering citizens in the streets. At least take it to the alleyway.” The red frock stepped over Finn’s dead body and came closer to Valerie. “Mayor Hancock. John Hancock.” He looked at her with dark eyes and smiled softly. Despite his somewhat grotesque appearance, there was no maliciousness behind him. He offered his hand to her. 

“He seemed to be a problem, Mayor.” Valerie grasped his hand, giving it a quick shake. The blood on her palm transferred to his, but he acted as if it didn’t. “And nobody puts their hands on me like that and lives.”  _ Not anymore.  _ The ghoul followed behind her as she walked towards the gun counter, nonchalantly shrugging and shoving his hands into the threadbare pockets of his coat. 

“I’m not sayin’ ya made a mistake. Not by any means.” Hancock leaned on the counter in the shop. He greeted the automaton. “I’d been meaning to do something about Finn, but what can I say? I’ve got a full plate.” Shooting Valerie a charming grin, he popped a tablet into his mouth. She was unsure if he was flirting, or if that he was attempting to smooth out the rough edges of his skin with his personality. There was the chance that it was both. 

“Glad to help you out,” she said. Valerie laid out caps on the countertop to pay for her ammo. She gave Hancock a final look, waving as she walked away, disappearing into the fog emitted by the street grates. 

 

* * *

 

 

Deacon was present for the exchange. Excluding the half-day he’d spent in HQ, he had stuck to Valerie while she traveled through the Commons. He crept alongside her, and slipped into Goodneighbor unnoticed while she was being hassled by Finn. He neglected the urge to intervene, as he wanted to see what Valerie would do when confronted with a thug like Finn. Of course, he already had a notion, but he wanted to see it up close. He hadn’t expected her to shoot Finn at point-blank range. When Hancock appeared, Deacon saw the knife he’d obscured behind him; Hancock had intended to kill Finn and make a spectacle of it. Afterwards, he propped himself against the wall outside of Kleo’s shop and listened carefully to the conversation between the Mayor and his wanderer. Deacon knew that Hancock’s somewhat overly-confident demeanor made Valerie uneasy, as it did most who hadn’t already fallen for it. As they talked, he noted the way Hancock’s eyes lingered on Valerie’s sleek skin when she spoke. It was a little known secret that he was undeniably envious of the softness the ‘smoothskins’ had. He’d exchanged it for eternity. He hated to look in the mirror, but he’d never admit it. The only reason Deacon knew was because he had a penchant for seeing the worst parts of people, exposed and unexposed alike. Not to mention that Hancock had mentioned it once during a drunken stupor. 

Unintentionally, Deacon caught Hancock’s eye as they both watched Valerie walk away. The ghoul inconspicuously tipped his cap to the man, acknowledging his presence. The Mayor allowed passage through the town for the Railroad’s agents and their “packages.” Deacon was grateful to Hancock for it. 

Deacon swung his leg around, and started off towards the rest of the town as Hancock retreated back into the Old State House. He'd adopted a stagger, occasionally dragging his feet against the asphalt in order to imitate an inebriated gait. Catching a glimpse of Valerie slipping into the Rexford, Deacon decided to loiter around Goodneighbor for a bit longer. He stumbled towards a fire barrel that was surrounded by drifters, all drinking and laughing. He twiddled a cigarette between the pads of his fingertips.

“So, boys,” he started off, “hear anything interestin’?” Deacon lit his cigarette and took a long drag. The men grumbled to each other, silently debating. 

“Depends, mister.” The drifter spit onto the sidewalk. “What do you find interesting?” Deacon adjusted his sunglasses and rummaged into his pockets for loose caps. He tossed them to the men. 

“I asked if you’d heard anything interesting.” 

“Well,” the oldest of the men mumbled. “That broad that just walked into the hotel is supposedly the General of the Minutemen. She don't really like the title, though, so she keeps it a secret.” Deacon rolled his hand, gesturing for the informant to continue. “They've also been saying that Dr. Amari, down at the Memory Den, has been workin’ on escaped synths for the Railroad.” 

“‘Preciate it, pal.” 

Deacon walked off, throwing his cigarette to the ground in annoyance. Those two had just rehashed things that he already knew. He'd just wasted 75 caps. He could've spent that on a bottle of the  _ nice  _ liquor. 

 

* * *

 

 

Valerie twirled the hotel room key around her index finger as she walked up the stairwell. She pushed her room door open. Sliding out of her leather jacket and unbuckling her armor pieces, she collapsed on the bed, next to her loving dog. Dogmeat sprawled out on the opposite side of the bed. As her eyes began to flutter and close, there was a loud rapping at her door. 

“For fuck’s sake,” she muttered. “Yeah?” 

“Mayor Hancock requests your company at the State House,” a woman's voice spoke from behind the door. Valerie’s feet hit the floor, and she yanked it open.  A tall, lean woman met her glare. She had greasy, auburn hair and a piercing gaze. “Wipe the blood off your face, and get moving. The Mayor isn't a patient man.” Valerie turned away and waved her hand, gesturing for the woman to leave. 

“I'll be there in a bit.” As the stranger’s footsteps faded away, Valerie looked into the cracked mirror on the wall. She opened a bottle of water and dipped the tip of a rag in it. After wiping the blood and dirt from her cheeks, she began to brush and tie her hair neatly behind her head. She didn't bother to put her armor back on. Draping the leather jacket over her shoulders, and called Dogmeat out into the hallway. 

Once outside of the hotel, Valerie began to cross the threshold of the State House. The inside was old and decaying, as were many of the prewar buildings. The paint on the stairwells chipped and peeled, and dust poured from the ceiling. Thudding sounds of shoes hitting the wooden floors bounced around the building, and voices floated down from upstairs. The whole atmosphere made Valerie apprehensive. She looked to the top of the spiral stairwell and saw the same red-headed woman, leaning on the banister, staring down at her. Valerie chose to ignore the smug expression on her face, and brushed past her once she’d reached the top of the stairs, and entered the room behind her. It held a pair of couches, a rugged coffee table, and a desk. It was littered with chems and cigar butts, the ashtrays overflowing with ash.  Hancock stood in the center of the room, complacently sharpening the bowie knife that usually hung at his side. 

“Well, if it ain’t the woman of the hour?” The light from the uncovered bulb hit his dark eyes, causing a faint gleam to show underneath the brim of his hat. “I’ve been meanin’ to talk to ya.” Hancock said, throwing his knife downwards into the surface of the desk. Valerie was irritated. 

“You couldn’t have done that earlier? Why not come to the Rexford yourself, instead of sending a glorified messenger?” She could feel the boiling eyes of the other woman on her back. 

“You watch your mouth, yo-” Hancock’s glare was enough to silence her. 

“That ain’t no way to speak to a guest, Fahrenheit,” he said, falling into the couch behind him. The springs creaked, and the floorboards seemed to shudder, but the mayor paid no mind. He outstretched his hand and waved fluidly at the couch opposite from him. “Take a seat, sister.” 

“What do you want?” Valerie sat down on the middle cushion as Fahrenheit perched herself on the arm of Hancock’s couch. Her watchful, predatory stare made Valerie all the more annoyed. 

“Firstly, I want your name.” The mayor stretched his arms out behind the couch, propping his feet up on the table separating them. 

“Valerie,” she answered bluntly. He raised his brows and chewed on the name.

“Valerie, I need help.” Hancock’s fingers played with the loose threading on top of the couch. “I reckon that you’re just the woman I’m lookin’ for.” Valerie blinked slowly, anticipating his next statement.

“After your display this evenin’, I’ve realized something about myself. I’m startin’ to get soft.” Valerie mentally scoffed, as it looked there was nothing  _ soft  _ about this man. Innuendo not intended. “I should’ve handled Finn weeks ago, yet here I am, lettin’ strangers do the dirty work for me. I think I’ve been living the good life as mayor for way too long.”

“Doesn’t look like it's the ‘good life,’” Valerie muttered, glancing around the room. 

“Oh, but it is, sister,” Hancock smiled. “I’ve got all the chems I could ever want. Plenty of sex. More than enough security. A couple dozen citizens who will gladly do whatever I tell them to.” Valerie shrugged. “It all seems a little tyrannical, don’t ya think? I remember when I was a guy like Finn, patrolling the streets of Goodneighbor, lookin’ to make some caps.” He ran a ragged hand beneath his hat. “Now, here I am, actin’ all high and mighty just because someone started callin’ me Mayor.”

“What do you want, Hancock?”

“You look well traveled. I need to get back out there, before what’s left of my ass fuses with this couch cushion.” Valerie stifled a laugh, causing Hancock to chuckle under his breath. “I want you to take me out into the ‘Wealth with ya. I need to get my bearings back.” Valerie stood from the couch with some difficulty, as all of the cushions had long since sunk in. She nodded her head, as though she were speaking to herself. 

“Alright, Hancock.” She began to walk out of the room and down the staircase. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He hollered. “Is that a yes or a no?” Valerie offered a noncommittal gesture and a sly wink. She pushed the door to the street open, and wandered into the night. 

“I don’t like where this is going, boss,” Fahrenheit finally spoke up. “That girl is just trouble, and you know it.” 

“She’s my kinda trouble, Fahr. Plus, it’s better than wasting away in this damn office.” He threw himself back onto the couch, and began to rustle in his pockets. He pulled out a bright red inhaler, and took a long drag from it. 

“That stuff is gonna kill you one day, Hancock.”

“I wish, sister. I really do.”


	3. In Confidence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which ghouls and demons are fought.

 

Hancock sat in an aged chair all night, coarse fingers periodically twitching over the neglected shotgun that lay across his lap. He waited for her. With every creak of the floorboard, and every hint of movement, he’d be startled from his light sleep, more excited than ever. Although, in spite of all his waiting, she never came. He’d no right to be upset; after all, she’d never even given him a solid answer. Still, he was disappointed. 

“I told you not to get your hopes up, Hancock,” Fahrenheit called smugly. She was leaning against the door frame, sporting her default pose and expression of ‘I told you so’. Hancock crunched a pill between his teeth. 

“You know, Fahr,” he cleared his throat harshly, “don’t take this the wrong way, but shut the fuck up.” Hancock threw the empty pill bottle to the ground as he walked behind his desk. He collapsed in his chair. Tossing his hat across the room, he pressed his forehead down against the desk. “Don’t bother me unless the goddamn State House is being stormed by mutants.”

 

* * *

 

 

Hours later, Fahrenheit’s knuckles rapped against the wooden surface of Hancock’s desk. The man stirred, rumbled, and groaned. He squinted at her, visibly irritated. 

“Word on the street is that your girl peeled outta here last night. That skinny merc from the Third Rail was hitting the asphalt with her.” She looked down at him, giving him time to process the information. Hancock rolled his face back into the desk. A heavy sigh escaped him. 

“Thanks, Fahr.”

 

* * *

 

 

A sniper is of no use in close combat. Ideally, MacCready would work best several feet behind Valerie, but she couldn’t deny that she enjoyed his company. The pair walked in Cambridge’s streets, their laughter bouncing off of the buildings on either side of them. Dogmeat wandered in front of them, wavering back and forth in the wide street. The sun was low in the sky, and it warmed their backs. 

“No, no, I’m serious! I was a mayor once!” MacCready pressed. His rifle was holstered behind him, and he was uncharacteristically at ease. Valerie stopped walking and turned towards him. She smirked. 

“Bullshit.” She planted her hands on her hips. “No one in their right mind would listen to a lanky shrimp like you.” 

“Back home, in the Capital Wasteland,” MacCready took a step towards her, “there was a town full of kids. The place was called Little Lamplight. I was mayor.” The two stared each other down for a short while, before Valerie finally scoffed. 

“Prove it.” Turning swiftly, she began to walk away, purposely swaying her hips. 

“How?”

“I want a picture.”

“Val, do you honestly think there are  _ working  _ cameras with actual  _ film _ just lying around in post-apocalyptic Washington, DC?” The merc hollered as he jogged to catch up with her. Valerie prepared her rebuttal, turning to face MacCready again, only to be stopped by a distant whine from Dogmeat. The dog’s fur was standing on end, and his teeth were bared. 

“Wha-?” MacCready mumbled. He was silenced by a light touch from Valerie, her other hand grazing over the pistol on her hip. Drawing her gun, she gestured for the merc to follow her. Rifle already in hand, MacCready shuffled behind her. Dogmeat’s rumbling growl grew into a full bark, and he bolted forwards, sprinting around a ruined house that sat on a street corner. Valerie ran after her dog. 

Upon turning the corner, she was surprised by a hoard of gangly feral ghouls. There were more than a dozen, including the stragglers that were shambling around in the distance. They hadn't noticed her, yet; Dogmeat was keeping them busy by dragging the group around in circles. He continuously nipped at their calves and ankles before darting away. He knew better than to stop and give the ghouls a chance to pounce on him. 

“Mac, go find a high point,” Valerie said, frantically reloading the pistol and rifle she carried, voice trembling slightly. She unknotted the small drawstring bag that was tied to her belt, and let it drop to the ground. She shook the jacket from her shoulders, knowing she would need to be fast. 

“I can't just leave you down here by yourself,” he argued. “Not with these fuh- freaking ghouls.”  

“Go!” She pushed his shoulder. Valerie didn't give him another opportunity to bicker. She spun around the corner and began firing, keeping her distance from the large cluster of ghouls. Dogmeat was still running around them, herding them as if they were cattle. “Keep it up, Dogmeat!” 

Hearing a dull thudding traveling upwards in the house next to her, Valerie looked to see the barrel of MacCready’s rifle slide out of a broken window on the second floor. The ghouls began to drop. Valerie had decent aim, but she wasn't MacCready. The kid had more experience, hours more of practice, and he was  _ good.  _

Ferals started to pour in from alleyways, snarling and grunting. At this point, some had realized what the  _ real  _ threat was. Occasionally, one or two would break from the horde that Dogmeat was herding, and they would rush at Valerie. They hurled themselves towards her, and though her reflexes were sharper than most, she still wasn't fast enough to evade all of them. A withered ghoul tackled her. She stumbled backwards, and fell flat onto the concrete. Grateful that her author didn't fulfill the cliche and cause her gun to skid out of her reach, Valerie shot the ghoul that had tumbled to the ground with her. 

There were only a few left now. The ghouls were fast and vicious, but  they were also weak and easily killed. Valerie had pulled herself up to her knees by now, crouching next to the wooden wall of the house. A few more gunshots, and the groaning ceased.

“I don't see any more, boss,” MacCready said from above. He'd stuck his head out of the windowsill and was peering down at her. She huffed and stood up. Nudging a dead ghoul with the toe of her boot, she sighed again. 

“Why do they always,” Valerie kicked the corpse, “have to travel,” and again, “in packs?” She breathed heavily, shoulders heaving. 

“You're telling me,” MacCready muttered, appearing beside her. Valerie began to roll the bodies around with her foot, occasionally patting them down for any loot, humming weakly as she did so. Most had a handful of caps, and sometimes an old heirloom or toy. Something that had a distant, almost archaic memory attached to it. It reminded Valerie that the creatures were once human, or close enough to it. She tried not to dwell on it. 

She was snapped out of her thoughts by Dogmeat’s snarl. He was a few meters down the street, barking and stamping his paws on the ground. Again, Valerie's hand lingered on her holster as she began to walk in the dog's direction. She heard a rustling of something moving in the dead leaves. Looking down, she saw another feral, incapacitated by a definite lack of legs. It crawled and reached at the dog in vain. Dogmeat barked at the ghoul, still bounding around it as if it were a toy. 

To Valerie, it was funny as hell. 

She started to laugh as Dogmeat jumped onto the ghoul’s back, effectively pinning it to the ground. The feral groaned, and Valerie only laughed louder. 

“What's the deal?” MacCready ambled up next to her, eyebrow raised in confusion. He looked at Dogmeat and the ghoul, sucked his teeth, and started to chuckle. “What the heck?” The dog stamped its paws on the ghoul’s body once again. 

Valerie was doubled over, hands on her knees, cackling. She looked up at the merc, grinning with her tongue between her teeth. MacCready didn’t find it as hilarious at Valerie did, but he was entertained, nonetheless. 

Time passed, and Dogmeat began to lose interest in the creature. He stopped harassing it, and only whined at the thing on occasion. The sun was well behind the partially demolished buildings, and the heat of the summer had begun to be more bearable. 

“Time to turn in, boss?” MacCready had his eyes set on the horizon. He sounded wistful. Valerie met his eyeline and stared into the colors of the sky. It was different from what she remembered in every way, yet it was still so similar. The oranges were more severe and vivid. They oozed into pinks and purples, meshing to create a scene out of a storybook. 

“Yeah. I suppose it is.” She scooped up the knapsack she'd dropped earlier. They chose to take shelter in the house MacCready had used as a vantage point. Valerie shut the door behind them, pushing a small shelf in front of it. There was no back door, and all of the ground-floor windows had previously been boarded up; she could sleep in peace tonight. 

“I think we ought to bunk in the same room,” MacCready started, somewhat gesturing to the large center room they found themselves in. “If you don’t mind.” 

“Not if you don’t.” Valerie winked at him. His eyebrows raised and he nodded quickly. She was mostly sure that he knew she was joking. Mostly. 

“I’m going to find a mattress. Or a bed roll. Something.” He scuttled off, and Valerie giggled softly to herself. She splayed out on a sagging couch, leg draped over one arm. MacCready was attempting to wrestle an old, dirty mattress down the stairs. He was scrawny, and it was possible that the mattress weighed more than he did. The bed finally slapped onto the ground next to the couch, invoking a cloud of dust. Valerie waved her hand to clear the air. 

“Pretty gnarly, Mac.” She folded a hand behind her head. “I’m gonna stick with this couch,” she said, petting the side of it. MacCready rolled his eyes. He looked down at Dogmeat, who had planted himself at Valerie’s feet on the end of the sofa.

“I guess I’ll find a lantern, too!” He yelled as he left the living room. The sun was almost gone, and without civilization, the world got much darker at nighttime. MacCready rustled around in the house, checking each room. He exhaled a sigh of relief when he found a decent sized oil lamp in the master bedroom. When he returned to the center room, he was met by Valerie swallowing up a bottle of bourbon. He paused in the doorway. Treading lightly, he set the lamp on the wooden floor, between the mattress and the couch. “Start the party without me, boss?” 

“‘S’not really a party, kid.” She shrugged and handed him the bottle. Warily, he took it from her, taking a small swig. Valerie leaned back, using the arm of the couch as a pillow. The pair passed the liquor back and forth, MacCready consistently taking sips as Valerie gulped the firewater. There was no small talk, no laughter. It was only a man watching a woman drown her demons. 

  
MacCready had tried this before. Drinking for weeks, simply trying to forget how _ well  _ screams echo off of the curved walls of a metro. Even as he watched Valerie pull her knees to her chest, her body wrapped around the liquor bottle-- MacCready knew that every demon could swim. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's dedicated to Alexa. The babe reads all of the shit I write, even when it's terrible.


	4. Far Cry From Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Deacon expresses his love for dogs, and Valerie tells it like it is.

Deacon woke with a jolt, his chest heaving. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and it soaked through his t-shirt. He sat up, eyes darting around the dim room. The low lantern in the center casted odd shadows on the wall. His eyes rested on Glory. She was sitting on the floor, minigun next to her. She was watching him intently, with a strange look on her face. 

“Nightmare?” Glory whispered across the space. Everyone else was asleep, excluding another nameless agent on the other side of the room. Deacon didn’t say anything; he could feel a sob caught in the back of his throat, and he worried that if he opened his mouth, it’d rush out. He settled on a weary nod. 

“It’s okay.” Glory avoided Deacon’s eyes and looked down at her hands. “I have ‘em too. Every night.” 

“And some nights are harder than others, aren’t they?” Glory chewed on the inside of her cheek and nodded. 

“Try to go back to sleep,” she sighed. “There’s still a few more hours of moonlight left.” 

Deacon laid back down, but his eyes remained open. He knew what happened if he let them close, and he was tired of seeing all the carnage. For Deacon, the night fed off of his emptiness; the cold and the dark of HQ consistently reminded him of all he’d lost in the past years. Of everything the Railroad had lost. He was tired of losing. 

Standing from his cot, Deacon started to prep. He began to pack a drawstring bag full of ammo and water. He didn’t eat as much as he used to. 

“Where are you going?” Glory’s voice pierced the silence. “It’s damn near 3 AM.” 

“Early bird catches the worm, Glory.” Deacon feigned a smile to reassure her. He continued shoving items in his bag as she scoffed. He left out the back exit. He stopped on a small set of stairs to dump the water out of his boots. The moon hung overhead, only a curved sliver in sight, with stars speckling the sky around it. He hummed lowly, walking along the backside of the church and through alleyways. 

He continued his tune as a railsign caught his eye; a dead drop in a rusted mail box that sat on the corner of a wide street. Deacon pried open the door of the mailbox with a flathead screwdriver. He plucked the package from the post box. Sitting in a doorway near the street, he dug his fingers into the pitiful wrapping on the container. It held a few hundred caps and a small note. 

 

_ RH-78 was reprogrammed last night. He's decided to leave the ‘Wealth, decidedly for the best. Told me to tell you thanks.  _

_ P.S. She's on her way to Sanctuary. MacCready is her hired gun. Don't know how long she'll be in town.  _

 

_ -Blackbird _

 

Deacon was glad the synth got out. He pulled a zippo lighter from his pocket and lit the letter on fire. It caught flame, and he dropped it to the ground. He watched it burn into ash as he dumped the caps into his pack. Dipping back into the alleyway, he slid through the buildings towards the northwest, beelining to Sanctuary. 

 

* * *

 

MacCready didn't say anything to Valerie, but he understood better than she knew. The silence between them was no more tense than he made it, so it’d be best to ignore the elephant in the room for now. The pair had just crossed the threshold into Sanctuary, shoes barely leaving the dilapidated bridge that graced the entrance before Preston Garvey was jogging towards them. 

“General! General!” Valerie drug a hand across her face as she glanced towards MacCready. 

“Bet’cha five caps that it's about another settlement,” she winked at the merc. He raised his brows and nodded. He wasn't agreeing to the bet, because he knew that she was most likely right. 

“General, I've just gotten word from a settlement out in the east.” Valerie feigned a concerned look as Preston went into excruciating detail of the hassled community. She hurried the man along without being rude. 

“Thanks, Garvey.” Valerie spoke softly. Her usual gruff tone was dropped; she seemed kind. “Preston, this is MacCready.” She gestured towards the scrawny man behind her. They exchanged greetings, MacCready overcome with awkwardness as Preston beamed with his outgoing persona. 

“I want you to make sure that he gets a room to himself, and is fed at least three meals a day. Make sure he's taken care of, Preston.” 

“Ma'am, yes, ma'am.” Valerie turned to her companion, eyes gentle underneath the ragged cut of her hair. 

“Mac, follow Preston. He'll make sure you're comfy.” She patted his narrow shoulder, kept her head to the ground and brushed past him. “I'll be in the Rocket if you need me, Garvey.” 

“I'll try not to, General.” Preston nodded at his commander. MacCready looked at him questioningly, but only received a slight smile. The two men watched Valerie shuffle downhill and out of sight. 

“She do that often?” He broke the silence. 

“The General has a lot on her mind, friend. Her conscious weighs heavier than most. I try to give Valerie the space she needs to function.” Preston swapped his rifle to his other hand. “If she's over encumbered with work…” 

Preston looked to MacCready, eyebrows knitted with worry, unsure of how to continue. 

“She shuts down,” he finished with a sigh. Preston began to walk up the main road, coaxing Mac behind him. “There was a time when I first enlisted her, I overestimated her abilities, I guess. I should've known the signs of exhaustion, but she hides it well.” 

“She doesn't show weakness,” MacCready pulled a cigarette from his pocket. “That's for sure.” Preston hummed in agreement. 

“Valerie locked herself in that Red Rocket for almost a week,” Preston cleared her throat. “I came by every day to try and lure her out, but it was like radio silence. The only reason I knew she was alive was because the food I'd leave in her drop box was always missing the next day.” 

 

* * *

 

Valerie could hear the men’s voices traveling down from Sanctuary, causing her to seize. She stood stock-still, listening intently. She knew that Preston would never speak a foul word against her, or against anyone, for that matter. Eavesdropping was just in her nature. 

She selected Preston’s rhythmic voice, along with sympathetic words he spoke. Valerie sucked her teeth as his voice faded into the settlement. 

“Just when he was gettin’ to the good part, eh?” She suggested, looking down at Dogmeat. The shepherd wagged his tail. Her hand landed down on the light switch as she walked into the Red Rocket. Valerie had reinforced the old gas station. There were now junk metal shutters that covered the main windows, steel doors were on either side of the building and she had replaced the lock on the garage door. Turrets peppered the top of the station, and she felt relatively safe.

She’d domesticated the building by planting hub flowers and wild ferns, and she managed to  fashion string lights out of scavenged copper wire and mismatched bulbs. She swung the shutters open, allowing the sunlight to pour into the small buillding. Dogmeat ducked behind the counter, splaying himself out on a bed Valerie had sewn specifically for him. 

The voice of Diamond City's DJ flowed throughout the garage as Valerie flicked on her radio. She was leaned intently over a workbench, tinkering with her armor. The garage door was open. Heatwaves rolled up from the asphalt and a chilled NukaCola was on a short table next to the bench, condensation collecting on the worn surface. 

A distant racket became more apparent, making it obvious that the source was drawing closer. Dogmeat started to bark loudly, and he disappeared outside. Valerie picked up a 10mm, following after him. The dog was encircling a pack Brahmin, sniffing at the animal’s heels. A caravan was steadily coming up the road. There were two guards in front, and another bringing up the rear as the merchant guided the great cow along the path. One of the three guards had stopped to pet Dogmeat, kneeling down and vigorously scratching between his ears. The man's moment with Valerie’s dog was cut short when he caught her figure in the corner of his eye. Somewhat embarrassed, the guard stood and offered a shy smile. 

“I've always had a soft spot for ‘em since I was a kid,” he spoke sheepishly. “Haven't seen one this healthy in a while. You must take real good care of him, miss.” 

Dogmeat trotted back to his owner. He sat at her feet, tongue lolling out of his mouth as he looked upwards at Valerie.. 

“Dogmeat’s kind of his own man,” she shrugged, tucking her pistol in the tool belt that hung around her hips. “He isn't too high maintenance.” Her hands grabbed at the scruff on his neck, roughing up his fur, much like a mother would her son. 

“D’you mind?” The man pulled a chunk of mole rat meat from his pouch. Valerie nodded and watched the guard kneel down again, allowing the dog to eat from his hand. Dogmeat's excited eyes reflected in the man's sunglasses, and in that instance, his presence became all too familiar to Valerie. 

“I guess I'd better be off. Caravan’s done gone and left me.” He rubbed Dogmeat's ear a final time. “See you later, General.” 

Valerie waved the man off as he jogged away, attempting to catch up with the slow brahmin. 

“Well, that was fuckin’  _ weird. _ ” 

 

* * *

 

Valerie came into Sanctuary towards suppertime. The sky was orange, and a warm scent of cooking food was floating throughout the settlement. There was a heavy bustle coming from a shack she’d fashioned into a canteen. It held most of the food and water, but it also had two stoves and a few dining tables. On nights like this, however, most of the settlers liked to eat on the patio-- MacCready included. The caravan from earlier in the day was still there. The guards and merchant integrated with the populace, while still remaining close to one another. Their pack brahmin was resting in the center of the neighborhood, near the other two brahmin Valerie had purchased from a traveler. 

She strutted through the small town, leather jacket swung over her shoulders, pistol strapped to her thigh. She frequently smiled and nodded at passersby. Valerie was gently working the crowd without the crowd knowing they were being worked. . She took a seat in a recliner next to MacCready. Swinging one leg over an arm, and propping her hand beneath her chin, she unintentionally asserted herself. Even without speaking a single word, she had a particularly domineering presence. She was intimidation itself. Yet, in spite of her preceding reputation, Valerie was nothing more than a woman, nonchalantly smoking a cigarette amongst her peers. 

“How’s civilized living treating you so far, bud?” Valerie leaned in towards MacCready, smoke billowing from her nostrils. “I’m sure Preston gave you the full tour, yeah?”

“He did,” MacCready nodded halfheartedly. “I gotta say, I- I’m not used to so many friendly people in one place.” 

“They’re doing damn well, viewing the circumstances,” she said, pulling back and taking a long drag from her cigarette. Again, she leaned in closer, inches away from his face. “Marcy’s kind of a bitch, though.” 

A sly smile grew across Valerie’s face as MacCready made eye contact. The two snickered at each other, like a group of teenagers laughing at a dirty joke. They tilted into each other, both trying to stifle their laughter. 

“That’s fuh- messed up, Val,” MacCready struggled through tears. “But yes, she’s rather rude.” 

Valerie blew out a long sigh in an attempt to calm herself. A slight clinking brought her and MacCready back to reality; Preston was tapping an old glass with a spoon. 

“Careful, Preston! That thing’s probably older than I am!” Preston rolled his eyes at Valerie, not catching the joke she’d made. He laughed anyway. 

“This evening, I’d like to welcome our General,” he started, lowering the cup. He glanced around, gaging the silence. “Fellas, this woman is the reason you have homes, jobs, food, and beds. She is more than all of us put together.” 

“Don’t demean yourself like that.” Valerie meant it. The man continued, ignoring her. 

“She has built and repaired many of these buildings by hand, and by  _ herself.  _ She’s traveled the Commonwealth, helping those that need it most.” Preston centered his eye contact on the woman in front of him, raising his glass again. “Valerie, I cannot thank you enough. Cheers.” 

An eruption of applause came from the settlers. They clapped with enthusiasm, and cheered with passion. Valerie stood from her chair, face flatter than ever. She waved her hands over the crowd, hoping for calm. Behind her, a sharp whistle pierced the crowd. She turned to see MacCready lowering his fingers from his mouth. They shared a quick nod. 

“I don’t want praise,” Valerie’s voice was stern and even. “I did not rebuild Sanctuary to be held up as a Queen or a Savior.” 

Deacon was sitting at a patio table, wedged between two of the caravan hands, blending in seamlessly to the crowd of dirtied farmers. His sunglasses may have stood out too much among the bleakness, but he wasn’t about to take them off now. 

He was tracing water droplets on his cup as Valerie spoke, a halfhearted attempt to seem disinterested. She was rotating herself, ensuring that she made eye contact with each settler. 

“I am not your leader,” she flicked cigarette ashes on to the ground, “and you do not owe me anything in return.” 

The silence, Deacon noticed, was deafening. The settlers hung around her, mouths agape, while Preston periodically clenched his jaw with embarrassment. The light that poured from the inside of the cookhouse cast a peculiar shadow on Valerie’s face. The more Deacon studied her expressions, the more frightening and determined she became; her brows were drawn together in frustration, and her mouth sneered as she spoke. 

“I build these places so men and women like you,” she threw her hand out towards the crowd, “can have a chance to restart. A chance to begin again.” Valerie ran a hand through her hair, rousing it more so than it already was. 

“While I have no ulterior motives for the Minutemen, I do not want you to rely on me to fix your problems. I cannot repair every aspect of this Commonwealth, but I am giving  _ you  _ the means to do so. Improvement begins with self reliance. You must create the changes that you want to see.” 

She started to fiddle with the cigarette between her fingers. The ashes had grown long and it had almost burned down to the nub. After taking a final drag, Valerie stuffed the cigarette into the ashtray by Deacon’s leg. She sucked in a large gulp of air, one that only Deacon seemed to notice, she turned back to the anticipating crowd. 

“Thank you, Preston,” she said with sweet sincerity. “But despite what you hear, and what you think you know-- I am no hero.” 

The tone of her voice had shifted drastically. Though Valerie had begun her address with severity, she ended it with a peculiar softness. 

“Goodnight, everyone.” She smiled out at the crowd; it was a placid, forced smile, but a smile nonetheless. The merc stood and began to follow as she turned to leave. Hearing footsteps behind her, she peered at him. 

“You stay here, Mac,” her hand gripping his bicep lightly. “You need to eat something.”

“Bullcrap. I’ve been traveling with you for two and a half days, and I haven’t seen you eat once.” His voice was barely above a whisper, careful not to draw any unnecessary attention. “That’s the pot calling the kettle black, and you know it.” 

“I don’t need it.” 

“Boss, I know that you think that you can survive off of whiskey and stimpaks, but it doesn’t work like that.” MacCready locked eyes with her. “I’ve tried.” 

The remark caught Valerie off guard. She inhaled through her nose, irritated because in a way, she knew he was right. 

“Come on.” 

They walked down to the Red Rocket, the warm glow of the interior lights beckoning towards them. Dogmeat was perched on his cushion, stuffed bear in mouth. He waited for Valerie patiently, still in the same spot each time she returned. She scratched at his head as they passed by him, closing the garage door behind them. After gesturing towards a barstool for MacCready, she shuffled towards the rusted fridge that was snugly wedged in the corner of the building. After some minor tweaking, she’d managed to get the appliance working at almost half of its capacity. It was a hassle, but overall, the effort was repaid by having cold drinks and fresh meat. 

Valerie pulled a slab of brahmin meat from the top rack, and two bottles of lager from the side door. Handing one of the bottles to MacCready, she set the meat on a cutting board. She chopped the meat, occasionally eyeing the man sitting across from her, who in turn, was eyeing the drink she’d given him. 

“You don’t have to drink with me if you don’t want to, Mac.” The concern wavered in her voice. “I’ve got plenty of water and cola.” 

He nodded, and got up to return the drink to the fridge, replacing it with a can of water. The simple reticence between the two was peaceful. The only sounds that moved throughout the garage was the soft whir of the refrigerator, the faint scrape of a utensil moving against a cooking pot, and Valerie’s faint humming as she listened to the radio. A familiar warmth filled MacCready’s chest. The scene was strikingly domestic: Valerie was cooking a stew, stray hairs brushed away from her face, and Dogmeat was curled at her feet. The plain noises made him feel at ease with the world and all of its cruel attributes; he felt like he was home. It was conflicting, as he'd only known Valerie for a couple of days, but she really was something else. He hadn't known a friend like her for a long while. 

The meal was served in ceramic bowls, stained with nuclear fallout and age. Valerie spooned the excess stew in to Dogmeat's bowl on the floor of the shop. 

“They used to always tell me,” she said, scraping out the remnants of the pot, “that people food was bad for pets. At this point, I think you're the most spoiled dog in Massachusetts, pal.” MacCready hummed in agreement as he shoveled meat and tatos into his mouth. 

Valerie sat next to him at the bar, the pair of them eating in relative silence as they looked out into the ruined parking lot. She'd long since scrapped the fuel pumps and old tires, but Valerie could still see the old world in her view-- polished cars, pristine pavement, and gentle, composed wives waiting while their clean cut husbands filled their petrol tanks. 

She was reminded of her own marriage. Nate leaning against the back side of the car, impatiently shaking his leg as the gas pumped; Valerie sitting inside the vehicle, head down, eyes shielded by large sunglasses. She did what she could to hide the bruises. 

He rarely hit her in the face, but sometimes, Nate became slightly too overzealous. The first time, her eye swelled and her cheek was blackened. She vividly remembered the repulsive purplish shade it turned, and then the wicked greens and yellows that followed as it healed. 

_ “I'm so sorry, Val,” Nate crooned, lightly touching the injury with his fingertips. “I was just so upset with you, you know…”  _

There was a distinct relationship between the words “I'm sorry” and “but.” They fell out of her husband’s mouth so often, Valerie would've believed that they were soul mates. Her brother would've been ashamed, had he seen- 

“Boss?” The voice was abstracted and nearly unrecognizable. “You doing okay?” She looked at the man’s face, and then down at the bowl in front of him. It was empty. 

“You’ve been holding that spoon for a while, Val.” 

Valerie gazed down at the table; spoon still in hand, and bowl still overflowing with stew. The steam had stopped rolling off of the surface hours ago, and her friend may have very well been waiting on her to respond for quite some time. The universe began to fade in around her, wrapping tendrils of reality around her skull. 

“Sorry,” she mumbled, setting the spoon down into the food. “I was just thinking.” 

She folded her hands in her lap and stared into the scarring she’d acquired over the past few months. She fidgeted, regularly fingering the cuffs on her vault suit, simply to have a foundation. Something to remind her that her existence was that of real stuff. 

“You, uh,” MacCready stumbled over his words, “you wanna talk about it?” He knew he was treading on fragile glass, much more dangerous than the usual ‘thin ice’. 

Valerie looked up, hand reaching for the bottle of lager that sat behind her plate. She grazed her thumb over the wrinkled label, when a smile crept across her face. It wasn’t a kind smile, MacCready noticed. It wasn’t the same grin she’d give Preston, or the kind he saw when they were sharing a laugh. This smile was something more unstable. 

“Did I ever tell you that I was 237 years old, Mac?” 

MacCready started to laugh, but the chuckled faded from his chest as he saw that Valerie was, in fact, not kidding. 

“Mhm. I was about 27 when I got rushed into that vault up there,” she jabbed a thumb behind her, faint disgust brewing on her face. “It sucked, let me tell you.” 

“You mean Vault 111? That place hasn’t been opened since the war, Valerie.” He wedged his hand beneath his chin, adding, “Most people won’t go near it.” 

“It was never opened because everyone was dead.” Her voice was strangely light for such a dark subject. “I was the only one that managed to get out.” 

MacCready chewed on her words, half convinced that his friend’s story was an elaborate prank. 

  
“I’m pre-war, babe.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To those of you who were waiting, I'm sorry for the delay. It got pretty wild for a bit.


	5. Admission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Valerie and Deacon talk books, and a match made in heaven is finally conjoined.

 

The former Vault dweller spun a grand tale for her companion, carving out her own personal adventures into his mind. She embellished details, here and there, in order to avoid specific questioning about her past. She would tell him when she was ready to. 

Sunlight started to pour in through hairline cracks in the outer walls, and it had begun to seep in through the shutters. A blinding strip of warm light cut across MacCready’s face, causing him to grumble, groan, and to eventually wake up. He rolled over, eyes gradually peeling open. Looking to the corner of the room, he expected to see Valerie-- hand curled around a bottle, just as she was when he fell asleep. 

Except she wasn’t there. 

 

* * *

 

Valerie found herself in downtown Boston, skirting around the Commons once again. She left the Rocket in the middle of the night, latching on to the caravan as it left Sanctuary in the early hours. The man who’d been so outgoing only a few hours before was now painfully quiet, something that seemed particularly out of character for him. It made Valerie uneasy. 

The group had stopped in an alleyway to rest. While she unscrewed the cap on her water bottle, Valerie could feel eyes crawling over her skin. Though, when she looked, there was no one. All of the caravan hands were busied with other projects, such as watering the brahmin, taking inventory, and eating their lunches. Despite the normalcy of the scene, a detail reared its head at Valerie; the man was still an outlier. His nose buried deep in a book, and reading through darkened lenses. The binding on the novel was ragged, well loved, yet Valerie could just barely make out the old print of the title. 

“1984, huh?” Her voice startled Deacon when it shouldn’t have. He felt exposed, and as if she knew he’d been studying her. “My brother used to read me that one,” Valerie confided, scooting herself closer to him. 

“I’ve got a soft spot for the classics. Especially ones that expose dystopian societies,” Deacon chided. One corner of her mouth raised in a smirk, brow arched. She hummed in approval, and nodded. Valerie held out her hand, eyes all questioning. 

Deacon was reluctant to hand over his prized possession, even if it meant getting closer to a mark he’d set for himself. Even so, he started to chew on the inside of his cheek as he slowly pressed the book into her palm. She held it tenderly, thumbs grazing over the sewn cover, and over the indentations of the title. 

“No matter how old this thing gets,” Valerie gestured with the book, “it will  _ always  _ be relevant.” Her eyes were dreamy and clouded with nostalgia. “Back in the day, before the bombs, they had it banned in America.” 

“Didn’t that happen a couple of years after it was published?” 

“Well, yeah. It was blacklisted until ‘ _ the Man’  _ decided that Orwell’s writing wasn’t that big of a threat anymore.” 

“But then it was?”

“But then it was,” Valerie confirmed. “About three years before the actual war, the government decided that it was best to keep the masses dumb, deaf, and blind-- so they banned hundreds of books, just like this one.” 

Deacon hardly realized that he was leaned towards her, listening intently to the story she told. 

“I remember when everyone got the letter delivered. It came complete with that big, ugly fucking official seal that the government liked to put on everything.” Valerie’s voice became louder, filled with malice. She was spitting venom. The attention of every person was on her now, as it had been for the last few minutes. “Four  _ goddamn  _ pages, front and back, single spaced.” 

“Did you have to burn them?”

“Legally, yeah,” she barked out a laugh, warm and hearty. “When the law came around, I vowed that I’d never burn any book. Ever.” 

Valerie could tell that her audience was enveloped, though she was more concerned with the man she sat next to. He understood, whereas everyone else only heard. As she looked him over, more intently each time, she realized he’d never bothered to tell her his name. Although, she’d never bothered to ask. 

“My brother and I built a hatch beneath the floorboards, into the concrete foundation of our house. Hid every single banned and questionable piece of literature we had. Surprisingly, through every mandatory search we had to submit to over the years, they never found them.” She beared a sly smile, taken by pride and satisfaction. She handed the book back to Deacon, her fingers lingering on the surface as he took it from her. 

“Are they still there?” 

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” 

 

* * *

 

The caravan departed from Valerie a few blocks away from Goodneighbor. She watched the pack brahmin and the guards shuffle off into another alley, doing their best to stay out of sight. She observed until they began to melt into the horizon, and for a few seconds more-- when she got a glimpse of one of the caravan hands departing from the group, and traveling in the opposite direction. 

“Maybe that guy was just a straggler they picked up,” Valerie thought aloud. “Just like me.” 

She tried not to dwell on it as she turned away. She walked along the crack sidewalks of old Boston, absent mindedly following a red, brick strip. It lead her directly to Goodneighbor, which was her end goal, but it continued past the town, and further out into the Commons. Pausing for a moment, hand on the door to Goodneighbor, she stared down the red strip. Her face twisted in aggravation as she pushed forwards into the town. 

“ _ Later.” _

The scent of the streets hit Valerie once again. She was repulsed, yet simultaneously welcomed. She liked this town; the citizens were free to do as they please, the laws were more of suggested guidelines, and everyone handled their own business without the involvement of authorities. Self-sufficiency was something Valerie strived for in her own settlements, and she clung to it whenever it was encountered.  By now, she was walking up the spiral staircase of the State House, clicking her tongue to a rhythm inside her head. She turned to face the room that was supposedly Hancock’s, yet when she entered, there was no ghoul to be seen. 

“Say, Fahr,” Valerie called out, “where’s your boss?”  The red headed woman scoffed and propped her boots up on the coffee table in front of her. 

“I don’t have to tell you anything.” 

“You’re right. You don’t.” She rounded the table and sat on the adjacent sofa, elbows on her knees. “Though, I suspect he’ll be awfully upset if he finds out I was here, and  _ you  _ wouldn’t tell me where he was.” 

Valerie plucked a knife off of the table in front of her. She slowly turned it over and over, its tip gradually digging a hole into the already rough surface of the counter. 

“Don’t you think?” Her voice was a purr, seeping with annoyance. Fahrenheit’s eyes were locked with the blade as she snorted. 

“Fine. He’s out making rounds.” 

“Guess I’ll just wait ‘til he gets back, yeah?” Valerie winked, before laying back on the loveseat, boots slightly dangling off the edge. Fahrenheit’s aggravation rolled off of her in waves. Her arms were folded over her chest, and she was bouncing her leg rather aggressively. She tried in vain to ignore Valerie’s presence, but her pride won the battle with her conscious. 

“What do you want with him, anyway?” She spat. Valerie lulled her head to the side and peeked at the woman. 

“Are you  _ still  _ talking?” She rolled over, facing the couch cushions. “I would’ve figured you for someone who wouldn’t talk to me more than necessary.”

“You really fucked him up when you left without him last time you were here.”

No answer.

“He was in a funk for days. You had gotten his hopes up, and then you just left without even saying anything.”

“Piss off, Fahr. Please.”

“Why? Am I hurting your feelings?”

“Nah,” she laughed. “Your voice is just really goddamn annoying.”

Valerie heard a rustle and a clatter from behind her, and going against her better judgement, she remained still. She was yanked up by her bicep, and tossed to the floor. Fahrenheit landed her boot in the center of her chest, causing her to instinctively attempt to push it away. She was stronger than Valerie had pegged her. 

“You really,” she coughed, “gotta get that temper under control.” Valerie tried to laugh again, but the weight on her chest kept her from doing so. “S’not good for the psyche.” 

“Hancock is the only reason there’s not a gun to your head,” she hissed through clenched teeth. “I would love to smash in those pretty white teeth you’ve got, but-”

“Fahrenheit. I’ve already told you that this isn’t how we treat guests.” Her head shot up at the sound of Hancock’s voice. She reluctantly lifted her foot off of Valerie’s chest. “Now, help her up.” 

Fahrenheit growled and offered her hand to the woman, much to her displeasure. Valerie eyed the palm for a second, and then smacked it away. She pushed herself off the ground and stood. Suddenly, a heavy arm landed around her shoulders and she was enveloped by the scent of whiskey and smoke. Hancock squeezed her arm and looked her over. 

“I’m not gonna make ya apologize, but you oughta know better.” His tone was still gentle. “Anybody else, and I woulda been fine with it, but not this one.” 

Hancock escorted Valerie out of the room, hand still on her shoulder. As she reached the doorway, she had the overwhelming urge to turn around and spit at Fahrenheit. Though, it was only an urge, and she decided against it. As the pair walked out of the State House, the mayor offered his arm to her. Hesitantly, she hooked her own arm in his and allowed him to lead her around the town. 

“Didn’t expect to have you back so soon, sunshine.” His eyes flickered down to her. “Figured you had walked out on Goodneighbor and me for good, last time you were around.” 

“Not at all,” Valerie licked her lips. “I was going to take you with me. I was looking forwards to it, actually. Never traveled with a ghoul before.” 

“And what changed your mind?” He was guiding her to the Third Rail. 

“I got here,” she gestured to the neon sign above the door, “and I met MacCready.”

“I knew it. That boy’s just cuter than me, I reckon.” He shot her a toothy smile as he held the door open. She chuckled with him, shaking her head. 

“You caught me, Hancock.” They meandered down the stairs and took a seat in the booth farthest towards the back of the room. “Really, though. I saw that kid, and I couldn’t leave him like that. He was practically skin and bones.” 

“Yeah, I know. I’ve tried to help him out before, but everything I’ve ever given him got shipped off to his son.” Hancock waved his hand, ordering drinks for the both of them. 

“You’re telling me that the kid  _ has  _ a kid?” 

“Mhm. Daisy told me that he was real sick, some rare shit or something. MacCready’s been payin’ this guy to come up with a cure. Sends every single cap he makes back to the kid, so he can keep fundin’ the research.” 

“Doesn’t even feed himself…” Valerie trailed off. She clenched her teeth and stared down into the glass that had been put in front of her. 

“Speakin’ of which, where is he?” 

“I left him in Sanctuary, a settlement to the northwest. I imagine he’s looking for me, right now.” 

“I’ve heard of that place. Did you not tell him that you were leaving?” Valerie smirked into her alcohol as she sipped it. 

“No. He would’ve followed me. He needs to build his strength up, and then I’ll go get him.” 

“Say, isn’t that Sanctuary place run by the Minutemen? I hear that their General is somethin’ fierce.” He takes a swig of his drink and knocks back a few pills. “Y’ever meet him?” 

“You’re looking at her, Hancock.” He blinked. 

“ _ Oh. _ ” 

Valerie knocked back her drink and pulled a cigarette from the inside pocket of her jacket. She offered one to Hancock, who gladly took one. Lighting the stick that dangled from her lips, she stood and turned to him. 

“On your feet, Mayor. We’ve got places to be.” She took a drag of the cigarette, flicking her ashes into the empty glass on the table. “What are you waiting for?” 

The cigarette she’d given him was sitting between two fingers, the hand itself resting on the table. He looked at her, dumbfounded, eyes flicking between her face and the hand that was on her hip. 

“You come into my town,” he takes a deep breath and stands, “and you disappear on me, and ya pick a fight with my red right hand. Not even gonna mention what you did to Finn.” He steps towards her, only inches away. “And now you expect me to just abandon my people to go adventurin’ with you?”

Valerie’s face is emotionless, with Hancock’s black eyes staring back into hers. His jaw is set, his own face coated with a slight scowl. Just as she’s ready to turn away from him, a faint grin cracks across his features. 

“Where have you been all my life, sunshine?” 

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys are enjoying it (:


	6. Subterfuge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Valerie watches a maiming and an underground organization is discovered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a short, relatively violent scene involving a super mutant in this chapter, as well as mention of Dogmeat being poisoned. Just a small warning for those who are effected by these sorts of things.

A sweet tune flowed through Valerie's lips as she brushed past Hancock, who was holding the door for her. She stepped out into the alleyway, away from Goodneighbor, and peered around. The ghoul swaggered towards her, shotgun in hand. His eyes were set on her face as she looked around the area, completely unaware of how he was admiring her.

“Where we headed first, sister?” 

“We’re gonna follow this here line,” she smiled, jabbing a finger at the dull red stripe painted on the ground. She took her rifle from her back. “It started back in the Commons, so I'm assuming it leads this way.” 

She turned away from Hancock and began to walk the line. 

“Uh,” he started, “I'm not sure it's a good idea to be followin’ random lines in the Commonwealth.” Hancock knew what that red trail meant. He knew it was the Freedom Trail. He knew what was sitting at the end of it. 

Valerie stopped, head cocked slightly. She sucked her teeth and turned on her heel. “Where's your sense of adventure, Hancock?” Her voice had seized him by the gut.

A faint pull in Hancock’s chest dragged him towards Valerie, the purr of his name in her mouth still ringing in his ears. She turned around, facing the direction of the trail. Valerie listened to a low sigh and the crunch of asphalt underneath old boots. She didn't need to look at him, as the worn red coat glared from her peripheral vision. The languid scent of bourbon and cigar smoke wafted around her. Exhaling through her nose, Valerie pressed on, diligently following the dull line. 

As they walked, Hancock frequently stole glances towards her; he was melting into the smooth, soft flesh that peeked out of her vault suit, regularly feeling as if the aged leather of her jacket was grinding him to dust. He consciously glanced down at his own warped hands as his eyes swept over her own. Swallowing a heavy lump in his throat, Hancock tucked his hand into his coat pockets, anxiously swinging his shotgun in the other. Consistent as the sun, the perpetual sound of gunfire echoed around the ruined buildings; usually, it was too far away to be a concern-- this time, it was not. 

The duo clambered onto a pile of rubble and concrete. Valerie crouched down and peered out into the street, caught sight of the red trail, and observed the group of raiders trapped in a firefight with a handful of Gunners. 

“I think we should just wait this one out, huh?” Valerie whispered over her shoulder to Hancock. “Those raiders can't handle the Gunners, and they know it.” Hancock shimmied towards her, and fell back on his rear. He dangled his feet out over the protruding mass of debris. 

“You sure they can't see us?” 

“Well, we're a ways off,” she lit a cigarette in the idle time. “Though, I imagine if you take that damn coat off, we'd be less obvious.” Valerie smirked, cigarette between her lips. 

“Sister, this partnership ain't gonna work if you expect me to take the coat off.” He gripped the lapels of the frock, pulling the fabric away from his body, “This is the genuine article!” 

The sound of the gun fight suddenly went quiet, causing Valerie’s head to snap to attention. 

“What the hell was that?” A feminine voice called out. 

“Come on. It's probably just another raider trying to save his friends.” A masculine voice replied. “They're already dead, asshole! Save yourself and go back home!” 

The two Gunners appeared from behind a building and started to walk towards the intersection. They periodically nudged the dead bodies of raiders as they passed them, picking up ammo and weapons as they did. The man and woman were chattering, letting their guards down. A mistake. 

Valerie was lining her sights up, the man's head in the direct center--

“What's that?” A heavy thudding followed the familiar question. She slowly lowered her rifle. “Found you!” 

“Oh,  _ dear _ ,” Valerie murmured, blowing smoke from her nostrils. A dry rotted tire lunged across the intersection, striking one of the Gunners in the back. His spine bent and curved to the rounded edge of the tire, his body then collapsing on the hard asphalt. “A new player has entered the game.” 

“A new  _ what? _ ” Hancock questioned, more than confused. Valerie brought a finger to her lips and then slowly pointed out to the crossroads in front of them, cigarette between her fingers. 

“Watch,” she mouthed silently. 

The female Gunner turned her body, an expression of terror splashing her face as she saw what was pursuing them. She raised her gun, firing erratically as she walked backwards from the threat, her steps occasionally faltering.

A great, sickly green humanoid gradually began to appear from behind a brick building. It wielded a heavy iron pipe, which doubled as a club. It lunged towards the woman, only a few feet away from her now. 

“Super mutant,” Hancock whispered, his grip instinctively tightening on his shotgun. “They're startin’ to get too close to Goodneighbor again.” 

“Mhmm,” she sung. “This is about to get nasty.” 

The super mutant swung at the Gunner again, just barely missing her. Though she fired repeatedly, she missed again and again, no doubt because of her fear. Now, she was frantically attempting to reload the measly pistol she was using, her hands shaking violently. She dropped the loaded clip. A heavy string of curses ran from her mouth as she dove for the ammo. The club flew towards her body, striking the Gunner at her hips. A deafening crack sounded as the woman’s pelvic bone clashed with the end of the pipe. Her crumpled body was thrown across the road, slamming into a rusted car frame. If she focused, Valerie could hear the woman still whimpering in pain, clutching on the remnants of her life. The man was now attempting to shamble away, all but recovered from the discombobulating hit from the tire. He limped pitifully away from the scene. His outstretched arm reached for a nearby wall to steady himself. An agonized groan slipped from his mouth as he collided with the bricks. Valerie clicked her tongue in disappointment.  


“If it wasn't for that, he just might have made it,” she mumbled woefully as the super mutant turned towards the Gunner. 

“This is a little sadistic, don't ya think?” Hancock scratched beneath his tri-corn hat. “Watchin’ these two suffer?” Valerie leaned back against a well placed slab of concrete. She shrugged. 

“Yes, it's sadistic,” she pinched the cherry on her cigarette, “but I have very little sympathy for Gunners.” 

“‘Cause of MacCready?” 

“No,” she cut her eyes at him. “A group of them tried to steal Dogmeat a few weeks ago. When they realized he wasn't going anywhere, they fed him rat poison.” 

Hancock's mouth hung open. He'd seen cruelty, but it took a special kind of sick to hurt an animal. 

“How's the pooch even alive?” Valerie chewed on her lip as she watched the mutant roll the dead Gunner around in the road. 

“What can I say? I'm a miracle maker.” She eyed the super mutant dawdling away from the crossroads. “After Dogmeat was in stable condition, I followed a rather messy trail back to their base camp. And you know what I did?” She looked to Hancock, meeting his dark eyes. He shook his head. 

“I poured a box of the same rat poison in their stew pot,” she said flatly. “Then, I sat up on the roof of an old shack and watched them choke on their own blood and vomit.” Carefully, she stood, so as not to overturn any loose pieces of gravel or concrete. She dropped on to the bed of a truck with a dull thud. The vehicle shuddered once more as Hancock jumped down after Valerie. She vaulted over the side of the truck and scanned the area. The mutant had meandered away from the scene, leaving corpses in its wake. Valerie looked towards the male Gunner, quivering in disgust as she noticed the menagerie of flesh and blood that spread across the sidewalk. 

“That's gotta be rough, buddy,” Hancock said sympathetically. Valerie nodded in agreement, walking towards the other body. She was still alive. Her breaths were labored and she wheezed and mewled with each intake, but she was still alive. The woman's bones were visibly broken and her body was twisted in an unnatural angle. As she unsheathed her gun, Valerie flinched at the sight. She pressed the barrel to the Gunner’s head and squeezed the trigger. 

Hancock appeared by her side, making a sound of disgust. Valerie looked to him, holstering the small gun again. 

“Just be glad it wasn't us, yeah?” She exhaled, shivering as she did so. They paced the sidewalk, following the red trail again. The sun was falling into the horizon, their shadows elongating against the cracked asphalt of the road. It was twilight. The heat of the day was had begun to fade as the breeze from the shoreline started to increase. Buildings that had started to envelope Hancock and Valerie split apart, revealing a somewhat dismal courtyard. Before them, a brick church stood, a glowing lantern by the door frame. The line ran directly to the stairs, stopping as it reached the structure. 

“I reckon this is it, sunshine,” Hancock murmured quietly, as if he was telling a secret. Valerie pushed the rickety door inwards, sweeping the room with the barrel of her rifle. She stepped in, broken glass and debris crushed underfoot. Hancock stayed close behind her, his breath grazing the back of her neck. The putrid scent of mold and dust caused her to recoil. 

“Something ain't right,” he mumbled. “It's too quiet. Ain't no rats movin’ around or anything.”  Valerie crouched down, carefully moving towards the doorway to the next room. She stopped in the frame and slowly raised a hand to point across the room. Hancock's gaze followed her direction. Sprinkled over the room, there were at least a dozen ghouls, some splayed over the pews and others stumbling about the sanctuary of the church. Valerie picked an old bottle up and flung it towards a corner of the room. The sudden crash incited the ghouls, causing them to howl and scuttle towards the noise. They collided with one another, each desperately searching for someone or something. Hancock saw an opportunity and dashed towards the ferals. He fought with them relentlessly, beating them into the ground, and filling their torsos with lead. As he fought, Valerie pulled a bottle of vodka from her satchel. She unscrewed the cap, tore a strip of cloth from a filthy rag, and stuffed the fabric into the bottle. 

“Hancock, move!” She screamed across the church as she held her lighter to the rag. Hancock turned to her, only just catching sight of the flame in her hand. As he ran from the crowd, she heaved the Molotov towards the ghouls. The bomb smashed into the dried, half-dead bodies. They burned easily. The ghouls began to falter as they chased Hancock, tripping and falling as the fire burned them. Few attempted to crawl across the wooden floor, only for Hancock to bash them with the butt of his shotgun. The eerie ambience of groans and wails died away, leaving the building in relative silence. Valerie breathed relief, wiping away the beads of sweat that had compiled on her brow. 

“Hey, Hancock.” Her unusual softness tore through the stagnant air. The man looked up, eyes previously fixed on a dead ghoul at his feet. 

“Yeah, sister?”

“Does it feel strange when you kill ferals?” 

“Well,” he looked to the barrel of his shotgun and then back to her, “I suppose it makes me feel a lil’ bit better about myself.” He shrugged, a conflicted expression forming on his face. “Every time I start thinkin’ I’m pitiful and ugly, I just remember that I could look like that guy,” he gestured to the ghoul next to his boot. Hancock gave a humorless laugh. “Maybe, one day, I will.”

Valerie’s scowl had long since been on her face, her grey eyes stark with disbelief and sympathy. Sympathy, not because she believed her companion to be hideous, but sympathy because no living creature should be forced to feel such a way. 

“You’re not ugly, Hancock. Not even on the inside.” She stepped over a corpse to reach his figure. Loosely gripping his lapels, straightening them, she spoke, “You’re just peculiar.” The kind, genuinely caring smile she offered cut through him. Valerie released his coat, turning towards another doorway, prepared with  _ another  _ lantern. The pair was met with stairwell heading downwards. Flicking her PipBoy’s light on, Valerie tested the first step with the toe of her boot. Once she was satisfied, they continued on, Hancock taking the lead. The wooden walls that surrounded them gradually turned to stone. They were walking into a catacomb. 

“I don’t wanna do this anymore,” Valerie mumbled, her face twisted in uncertainty and relative paranoia. Catacombs were simultaneously too big and too small; the layout could very well stretch for miles, whereas the width and height of the passageways were only a few feet in diameter. Dust and mold spores that floated through the air began to constrict her, causing her breaths to be short and shallow. In spite of her anxiety and general claustrophobia, the probing look Hancock gave her caused her to press on. 

She walked alongside Hancock, occasionally stopping to pick at the bones of humans past. Continuing down the corridor for seemingly ages, the companions reached a small alcove, slightly lit. The faint light caused a golden dial on the wall to glint, which caught Valerie’s eye. She slid her fingertips over the raised letters. 

“‘The Freedom Trail’,” she mumbled to herself. As her hands traveled over the center of the dial, the lantern that was inscribed dipped inwards. Hancock allowed her to fiddle with the thing, wandering off to the opposite side of the room. He studied the skeletons and the wooden coffins that littered the hallway. A rat scuttled across his boot, causing him to jump back. He tripped backwards, falling into one of the open caskets that he’d just been looking into. The dry rotted wood crushed beneath his weight, sending a fresh cloud of must around the room. Valerie and Hancock both began to hack at the dust.

“What did you do, Hancock?” Valerie sputtered, covering her nose and mouth. She waved the dust and dirt away from her. 

“I tripped,” he shrugged. She rolled her eyes and scoffed. Pressing down on the lantern a final time, the wall shuddering as it pulled apart, revealing a secret passage. “Ain’t that somethin’?” Hancock mused in awe. 

“They’ve got a pretty weak security if you ask me,” Valerie said, rummaging in her bag for something. She pulled out a faded orange holotape. “I’ve been finding these all over the Commonwealth. Somebody even had the audacity to put one in my mailbox.” She wiggled the tape in front of Hancock. “The kicker is, they all say the exact same thing. They’re all propaganda for something called The Railroad.” 

“I’ve heard of ‘em before,” Hancock was feigning ignorance. He’d done more than heard about them. “They work on liberatin’ synths and the like.” 

“Well, they’re really pushing for me to find them. It’s getting damn aggravating.” She shoved the holotape back into her knapsack. “I guess it’s time for a little pow wow, huh?” 

Hancock hadn’t the foggiest idea as to what a pow wow was, but the sly grin and the unnerving wink that accompanied the phrase concerned him. He followed her as she stepped over the rubble into the passage. They stumbled into a darkened room. 

Valerie’s hands shot to cover her face as two excruciatingly bright flood lights burst through the darkness. They blinded her. As her eyes adjusted, the silhouettes of three figures became clearer. Two women, one brandishing a heavy minigun, and one man-- who Valerie instantly recognized as the caravan hand from earlier. They stood parallel to them, weapons at the ready. Hancock made a move to raise his shotgun, but a touch of Valerie’s hand on the barrel made it clear that she was attempting diplomacy. The slimmer of the women spoke up. 

“What brought you to us?” Her authoritative tone struck Valerie. This woman was the leader of the faction. It was obvious that she was attempting to assert her dominance over her, by observation of her posture. 

“You really need to ask?” Valerie whipped out the tape again, and began to pace. “‘Join the Railroad’,” she mimicked, tapping the holodisk to her hip. “I believe that you guys could restart the U.S. Postal Service, judging by how many of these I’ve found in my dropbox alone.” 

“We were unsure if you had gotten the message,” the woman stated. “I am Desdemona, leader of the--”

“The  _ Railroad _ , yeah?” Valerie chewed on the inside of her cheek. “What is it you want from me?” 

“Deacon,” Desdemona gestured towards the man leaning coolly against the wall, “has been tracking you for some time.” Valerie raised a hand to her mouth, her features that of exaggerated surprise. “He tells me you’re the General of the Minutemen. That you’d be very useful to us.” Deacon nodded slowly as he listened to Desdemona’s words. “And that you are very anti-authoritarian, which would lead me to believe that you’re also anti-slavery.”

“Can’t be one without being the other,” she shrugged. 

“I would like for you to work for us,” she continued, folding her hands behind her back. “Freeing synths can be quite rewarding. I believe you understand the merit in it. However, before I take you in to the Railroad, I must ask something.” Desdemona paused. Valerie shifted her weight. “Are you willing to die for your fellow man, be it synth or human?” 

“Depends on what type of person they are, Desdemona. Though I suppose it isn’t much different from my daily life.” 

“That’s what I was looking for.” The woman pinched the bridge of her nose and inhaled deeply. “I need you to understand that the Railroad is struggling to survive. This is a hazardous job and it’s difficult to find new recruits due to the fear that many citizens have of the Institute and their synths.” Her voice had begun to shake and the bravado persona was faltering. “We are desperate, General.”

By now, Valerie had lit a cigarette. She took slow, long drags as she contemplated the offer being made. She realized that it actually wasn’t much of an offer. More of a request, really. 

“Okay,” Valerie said, shrugging her shoulders. “Be aware that I have other convictions, as well. Do not expect for me to abandon the Minutemen in order to satiate you. Those are my only terms and they’re non-negotiable.” 

“Very well,” she agreed, somewhat deflated. “Before I assign you your first mission, you’ll have to pick a codename.” 

“Everyone in the Commonwealth already knows who I am. Is it really nece--”

“Necessary? Yes, completely. The Railroad is an underground organization, and it will stay that way. Our identity, as well as your affiliation with us, needs to remain a secret.” 

“Fine,” Valerie shirked her cigarette to the ground, grinding it into the dirt with her boot. “Any suggestions?” 

“An agent’s name is their own. You have to create one for yourself. Glory,” she gestured to the dark skinned woman carrying the minigun, “was inspired after she was liberated from the Institute.” Valerie huffed, annoyed by the forced subterfuge. 

“Wanderer,” she thought aloud. “My codename can be Wanderer.”    
Deacon liked that. 


	7. Experiment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which portions of Valerie's childhood are exposed and she delves into Hancock's pockets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A warning for this chapter as well, as it contains a semi-violent death of a (not major) character.

Valerie’s teen years had been difficult. After her father’s death, her mother became distant, falling into a deep depression. She drank heavily, trying to fill an emptiness that extended farther than any bottle could. Jaime, her brother, strayed further and further from their home; he stayed out late into the night, constantly returning exhausted and filthy. Though he took care of his younger sister, bringing her books and cooking dinner when their mother was too drunk to care, Valerie could see the overwhelming fatigue in his eyes. It wasn’t until much later that she understood what he’d been doing all those years. 

It was a warm summer evening. Valerie was positioned in front of the television, her dinner plate in her lap. Jaime cooked supper that night. 

“I’ve gotta go out for a while, Val,” he told her. “I’ll be back before you know it.” He winked as he slipped out the front door, the zippers on his leather jacket clinking as he moved. Before she knew it, he was gone again. The loneliness didn’t bother her as much as it used to, but she still missed him. 

Nearly 15 minutes had passed since her brother walked out the door. Valerie absent mindedly flicked through tv channels. As she did so, a flash of a news station caught her attention. The scrolling text read: BREAKING NEWS, RIOT IN DOWNTOWN BOSTON. The television showed a horde of people, packed tightly together in a wide main street. Windows were broken by rogue protestors, and bins had been set on fire. The camera panned to the front of the crowd, showing armored black vans skidding to a stop. Men poured out of the vans, looking much like black ants skittering to protect their mound. Valerie held her breath as she watched the policemen arm themselves with heavy rifles and shotguns. Her mother stumbled into the room, the faint scent of alcohol clinging to her. 

“Another one?” She slurred. “When will those people learn,” she hiccuped, “that they just can’t fight this anymore?” She fell backwards into the couch, staring blankly at the screen. She’d been drinking, but not enough to make her incomprehensible. This was one of her better days. As Valerie’s eyes lingered on the grainy video of the riot, she caught sight of something that struck a deep fear in her gut. The vivid, detailed patch on the back of her brother’s jacket was moving through the crowd, pressing against the police and the acrylic riot shields just as everyone else was. 

“Please don’t be Jaime,” she silently prayed, repeating it over and over in her head like a mantra. “Don’t let them hurt him.” Her mouth was slightly agape and she sat with bated breath, the fork she’d been eating with sitting loosely in her hand. Suddenly, the assembly shifted as protesters began to run from the barricade of policemen. The man clad in her brother’s jacket turned to face the camera, pushing people away from the barrier. 

“Is-- Is that your  _ brother?  _ Is that  _ Jaime? _ ” Her mother stammered out, stiffening in her seat. He was screaming into the crowd. Valerie could just barely imagine his voice in her mind. He was shouting, telling them to get away. To run. There was no chance for her to pretend that this man was not Jaime, that he was not her brother. “Why are they--”

Shrieks of terror erupted through the television’s speakers, followed by a cacophony of gunshots. A handful of people at the front of the mass fell to the ground. Valerie watched her brother’s body seize, his torso convulsing as stone-faced guards filled him with bullets. He folded, crumbled, and collapsed. It was all but three seconds. 

In the few moments that Jaime was killed, Valerie’s perception of time was skewed. Though her mother howled and cried, Valerie’s gaze was still fixed on the tv. The screen had long since gone to static, the news network cutting the broadcast. She felt as if she were underwater; all of the sounds she heard were distant, and the tears that welled up and poured over on to her cheeks were going unfelt. Her mother took hold of her shoulders, shaking her violently as she continued to cry out. A deep sob burst from her chest, threatening to cause her ribcage to collapse. The plate in Valerie’s lap tumbled to the floor as her mother pulled her into a tight hug. She rocked the pair of them back and forth, moaning loudly. Valerie’s own body was limp. Unfeeling. The shock ran through her, deep into her bones. 

“Valerie, you can't-” Her mother gasped for air in between sobs. “You can't end up like your brother.” She wondered, what did being ‘like her brother’ entail? A freedom fighter? A perceived anarchist? Or a victim of the system, a chalk outline on the cold asphalt? 

Even so, she stayed silent. 

“You’re going to have the life I was  _ meant  _ to have,” she sniffed. “A soft, sweet life, surrounded by a picket fence, married to a strapping, young Army man.” Running her fingers through her daughter’s then-long, dark hair, she pecked kisses to Valerie’s crown. The rapid increase in Valerie’s breathing went ignored, until she tore from her mother’s arms, ripped open the front door, and bolted into the street. From her home in Quincy, she could see the orange glow of flames from the inner city, blurred through the tears in her eyes. 

She ran down her neighborhood’s street before falling on the hard ground, scraping her knees and shins. The heels of her hands stung from her fall. She stared out into the horizon, into the concrete jungle. Wheezing, a tight pain in her chest, Valerie attempted to pull herself up, only to stumble and fall again. A number of voices wafted towards her, all calling her name. Her mother’s voice brushed through the haze, but she was still set on the city. Hands engulfed her, gently wrapping around her biceps and waist. A woman’s face appeared. Valerie seldom remembers this woman’s features; she only recalls the red lipstick and the large curls that set on top of her head. She knelt on the sidewalk with Valerie, tugging her into the soft cotton of her dress. 

“Honey, what’s wrong? What’s wrong?” Her voice was soothing and kind. She cupped Valerie’s face, forcing her into eye contact. “What happened?” 

“They took Jaime,” she rasped. “They got Jaime.” 

“Who’s Jaime, honey? That your friend?” 

“My brother, they took my brother.” She fell into the woman’s arms, catching a slight vision of confusion on her face. She cradled Valerie, who was a stranger to her and will forever be. This was the first and last time Valerie ever saw her. 

Days later, there was a knock on the door. Shuffling to answer it, Valerie cracked the door open, peering out onto the porch. A man stood there, hands tucked behind his back, eyes solemn. He flashed a gentle smile as he saw the young girl staring up at him. 

“You must be Valerie,” he mused. “Jaime used to talk about you so much.” She flinched at the mention of his name. “I- I’m Brandon. Your brother and I were very good friends.” 

Valerie opened the door wider, stepping aside for the stranger to come inside. As he passed her, he brought his hands from behind his back, revealing Jaime’s coat. Brandon offered it to her, and she warily accepted. 

“He told me,” he swallowed hard, “that if anything happened to him, to get that jacket to you.” Valerie fell onto the couch, eyes roaming over her brother's leather. She traced the patches with her fingertips, and then crushed it against her. 

“Thank you,” she mumbled into the material. Brandon sat next to her, leaned forwards with his elbows on his knees. 

“He was a good man, your brother. I know that he wasn't always here with you, but I swear that everything he did, everything that he and I did together, was to benefit you.” Brandon propped his head up on his chin. “We’d raid the rations outposts, so we could get food to people who didn't have any. He'd always save the best stuff for you, though. He'd say, ‘Valerie used to love these cookies when she was little,’ and then he'd shove ‘em in his pocket and take them home.” 

Valerie's eyes welled up with tears as she smiled at the memory. It was more than once that Jaime would bring her cookies and candy after being gone for most of the day and night. He’d leave treats on her nightstand while she slept. She’d wake in the morning, run to his room to thank him, but he would already be gone again. She often wondered if he ever actually slept himself. 

“He'd take all of the books we could save from the burning piles,” Brandon continued, staring at the wall. “Took those home to you, too. That boy loved you to death, Val.” 

She reflected on what he had told her, understanding what the implications meant. Jaime already risked everything on a daily basis, but he risked even more for his sister. Brandon left, hugging Valerie tightly as he did so. Valerie tucked Jaime’s jacket beneath the floorboards with every seditious material he'd ever given her. This was the last time she saw Brandon. A week and a half after he met Valerie, he was arrested, and according to rumor, executed. She was 14. 

Now, 218 years had passed. The coat that hung around her shoulders was rough and faded, and only faintly smelled of her brother. Her hand was dipped into an inside pocket. Valerie’s fingers grazed over a worn, unopened envelope that had been inside the pocket since the day it was delivered to her. It was addressed to her, but she couldn't bring herself to open it. 

She was standing on top of a broken down highway, outlooking the ruins of Boston. It had been almost two hours since she and Hancock left the Railroad’s HQ, where they had spent the night. They'd just wiped out a gang of Gunners who were encamped on the turnpike. Turning away from the city, she looked towards Hancock. He was propped on the hood of a rusted car, back against the remains of the windshield. He was sucking up the contents of a red inhaler, breathing out dregs through his nostrils. Valerie leaned forwards on the car, peering over his form. 

“What's that?” 

“What's what?” Hancock's head lolled to the side, eyes lidded. Valerie smiled. 

“The thing in your hand, Hancock.” He laughed softly as smiled back at her. 

“This is… This is Jet.” He spoke slowly, enunciating each word carefully. “You wanna try?” 

Valerie crawled onto the car, laying on her stomach. She carefully took the inhaler from his hand, turning it over. Hancock watching her with wide eyes, she raised the Jet to her lips. She inhaled deeply, and handed the inhaler back to Hancock. Valerie blinked her eyes lazily. It felt as if her blood flow had been slowed, and as if she could feel each ounce pass through her veins. The diseased birds passing overhead had been reduced to a crawl, their wings barely moving as they glided through the sky. A slight, knowing smirk split across Hancock’s face as he looked at Valerie. Her eyes were dilated and dark as she met his gaze. 

Her fingers slid towards his limp hand that rested on his stomach. She pulled it towards her, meticulously studying the warped and abused flesh. Valerie swept her thumb over the exposed tendons and muscles. Hancock watched her hands on his own, subconsciously astounded by her lack of disgust. She laid her head down, cheek pressed against the back of her hand, the other loosely wrapped around Hancock's. The heat from the midday sun warmed Valerie's back. She closed her eyes as she melted into the high of the drug. 

Hancock was fighting the urge to shut his own eyes, afraid that if he did so, the intimate moment would disappear. Instead, he stared at Valerie, roaming over the curve of her legs and waist, and finally settling on the faded scars of her calloused hands. Though they were much like any wasteland woman’s hands, bruised, worn, and rough-- they were different and confusing in every meaning of the word. The skin and muscle that wrapped around her bones was over 200 years old, the curl of her smile was ancient, and she was still beautiful. He sighed, breathing through parted lips. Gently squeezing Valerie's hand, Hancock succumbed to the thought of sleep, eyes fluttering closed. 

Valerie twitched awake, finding herself several hours later. The sky was now a fiery orange, clouds tinted pink as the sun set. She dug the palm of her hand into her eye as she looked around. Hancock was feet away from her, poking at a fire pit. 

“Well, look who's alive,” he chuckled. “Mornin’, sunshine.” Valerie hummed in response, sliding off the car hood. “I was kinda worried you'd been knocked out of the land of the livin’ for a bit.” She sat on the ground across from him, looking at his face through the flames. 

“That was the best sleep I've ever had,” she mused quietly. “No nightmares, no paranoia. Best of all, no reeking scent of liquor in the morning.” She started to laugh, and Hancock laughed with her. 

“In a way, I know what you mean, sister.” He'd stuck a slab of mystery meat on a skewer and was spit roasting it over the fire. He sipped at a can of water as he sluggishly turned over the chunk. Valere gazed into the fire, keeping her distance as the heat from the flames was overwhelming in the evening sun. The aroma of the cooking meat wafted through the air, traveling down past the highway, to beneath the underpass. 

  
Deacon’s nose twitched,  causing him to realize how hungry he was. He’d been sitting in the same miserable hole for the past five or six hours, patiently waiting for Valerie to move again. Two miles farther to the west, they’d arranged a meeting place, at the base of a collapsed bridge. His eyes flickered upwards as the voices above him rose and came tumbling down, words fleeting and echoing around the concrete foundations. Deacon breathed sharply through his nose. He continued to wait. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys are enjoying the story as much as I enjoy writing it (:  
> Please remember that every kudos, every bookmark, and every comment keeps me writing. If you think it won't make a difference, I promise that it does.


	8. Author's Note

I want to apologize for my recent hiatus (if you can call it that), for those who are invested in the story. 

I will be gradually updating and editing the existing chapters, because damn it, I want to. I'll add new chapters after the previous ones have been updated. 

I don't think any major plot points will be changed, though it's possible. 

 

Thank you to those who leave kudos and comments. You all are what make artists continue to produce their medium, whether it be writing, art, or any other creative outlet they have. 

 

If you wanna talk, find me here: <http://splicingrabbits.tumblr.com/>

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written a fanfic in years. Don't crucify me, please. 
> 
> I've just had this idea in my head for a long while, and after writing it down twice, I was finally relatively happy with the third draft.
> 
> If you guys like this, I'd love to know. 
> 
> Tumblr: http://www.splicingrabbits.tumblr.com/


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